


Fine, But Not Dandy

by RocknVaughn



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Homophobia, M/M, Nobility
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-24 21:18:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1617365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RocknVaughn/pseuds/RocknVaughn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur Pendragon, Earl of Shrewsbury, is spending what he would consider an ordinary Saturday afternoon at the Albion Club... That is, until he meets someone extraordinary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fine, But Not Dandy

**Author's Note:**

> Be advised that this is a serial WIP. I am going to be writing chapters for this story as prompts from the weekly LJ community Camelot Drabble inspire me, which may not be every week. Perhaps it will be easier to just subscribe so that you don't miss any updates!
> 
> Also, a great big thanks to [pensive_bodhisattva](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pensive_bodhisattva/pseuds/pensive_bodhisattva) for being my Regency beta for this series! You're amazing, bb!
> 
> Thank you for giving this historical AU a try!

~°~

As he did most Saturday afternoons when he was in Town, Arthur Pendragon, Earl of Shrewsbury, found himself in the main sitting room at the Albion Club. The Club was considered one of the _it_ places to frequent, mostly by those who were not members. What went on at the Albion was shrouded in mystery and it seemed that no one who was actually a member was willing to talk about it, which naturally only heightened the club’s appeal.

Members of the Ton believed that money and power could eventually procure entrance to these hallowed halls, but they could not have been more wrong. Albion was highly exclusive for a very specific reason: It catered to certain _proclivities_ that the Crown deemed illegal, immoral, and deviant.

Arthur languidly let his eyes wander about the room as he slowly swirled the brandy in his snifter, pausing just long enough to raise the glass to his lips and sip before resting his hand back against the armrest. He was aware that several pair of eyes in the room had come to rest on him, but he pointedly did not acknowledge any of them.

Not only was Albion a place for men who were attracted to men to meet safely, it was also a place where those specific needs were met. While Albion kept staff on hand to accommodate such _needs_ , it was also a place to attract one’s peers for indulging in anything from a quick fuck to a long-term affair.

To that end, there was quite a large faction of Albion members that found it particularly freeing to dress in a way that was either on the edge of acceptability for the peerage, or else downright improper for polite company. Dandies and exquisites draped themselves invitingly across chaises or paraded about the room like peacocks, every hair in place and every article of clothing matched down to the smallest detail. There were even a few that preferred to add certain articles of ladies unmentionables to their wardrobe.

That was all well and good—to each their own—but Arthur had never been attracted by Beau Brummell types, and he certainly wasn’t interested in their ridiculous posturing.

He was well aware that, as heir to one of the oldest Earldoms in Britain, he was much sought after as a partner; to the point where trickery and blackmail was not out of the question. Seeing that the ladies of the Ton stalked him with the same dogged tenacity, he was sick to death of being hunted like a prized stag. This was why Arthur was perched in his customary chair at the table in the corner with his back to the wall and a stony face ready for anyone not of his acquaintance that might be foolhardy enough to approach him.

Arthur took another mouthful of brandy as he pondered his own predicament. At 28, pressure was mounting for him to marry and sire an heir, yet with each passing year, he’d found the idea less and less palatable. Perhaps if his father had lived longer, he might have been able to force Arthur into such an action for the good of the title. But Uther had died and made Arthur an Earl at the age of 23 and now Arthur had been on his own too long to be swayed by duty for duty’s sake. Better that the title pass to his nephew Mordred than to yoke himself with a wife he could neither please nor desire. No, he was much better off focusing on the attentions of men.

The kind of man Arthur preferred was more classic and traditional in his form of dress and address, much like Arthur himself. He was well-spoken and educated, and exuded a confidence that the exquisites seemed to lack. Certainly, there were fine young men present at Albion that met that description. He’d spoken to several, befriended a few, and bedded an even smaller number. If anything, Arthur was incredibly careful when he chose his liaisons.

Yet, all of them had been lacking something, a certain indefinable quality that Arthur had yet to name but knew he would recognize when he saw it. His friend Gwaine, the Earl of Essex, teased him and called him a hopeless romantic, but Arthur did not believe it had anything to do with romance. It was about compatibility. After all, what kind of realistic romance could be had between two men in a country that forbid such things upon pain of death?

Arthur’s musings were disturbed by the hiss of a low voice nearby.

“I did not give you such liberty to touch my person, my Lord.” The voice was firm, albeit a bit shaken, but no less melodious for it. Arthur’s eyes followed the sound, only to discover the smarmy Lord Wakefield trying to proposition yet another of Albion’s serving boys. And, based on the way the young man was trying to flinch away from the meaty hand clutching his arse, his overture was not being well received.

“Now, now,” Lord Wakefield was saying as his other hand snaked around to clench the serving boy’s other buttock, “No need to play coy with me. I know well that all you urchins are only here to find yourselves a ‘wealthy benefactor’.” Lord Wakefield looked the slender lad up and down lasciviously. “Trust me when I say that I am a man of _large_ fortune in any aspect you might require…”

“Sir, what I _require_ is for you to desist…”

Incensed, Arthur rose to his feet and walked the few feet to Wakefield’s table. “Is there a problem here?” Arthur was careful to keep his eyes on Wakefield and not on the man that was unfortunately sandwiched between the Viscount’s ham hock thighs.

Wakefield turned a gimlet eye on Arthur. “I do not believe this concerns you, Shrewsbury.”

“I should think it does,” Arthur demurred with a pretentiously raised eyebrow, “when your attentions prevent him from fetching my next drink.” Arthur curled his fingers around the serving boy’s bicep and slowly extracted him from Wakefield’s clutches. Barely looking at him beyond the downturned dark mop of unruly hair, Arthur said, “Two fingers of the finest brandy in the house to the corner table, if you please.” He nodded his head in the direction of his table.

“Yes, m’Lord,” the young man said, his voice quiet and subdued, before heading back toward the bar from whence he’d come.

Arthur’s gaze hardened until the porcine man visibly shrank under its power. “Such dalliances should be kept to off-duty hours in future, Wakefield, and only if the boy is willing. I would hate to have to speak to Lord Ashton about your tendency to molest his help.”

Arthur turned his back and walked away before Wakefield could even begin to stammer a reply. Arthur believed that a gentleman should act with honor and respect at all times regardless of the circumstances, and this was no different.

Not long after Arthur had settled himself back at his table, the young server came with his drink. “Your brandy, m’Lord,” he said, setting it on the table in front of Arthur with almost too much care.

Arthur didn’t miss the tremor in the boy’s hands as he released the glass. Without a hesitation, he slid the glass of amber liquid across the table and indicated the chair in front of him. “I ordered it for you. Please, sit.”

The server’s head shot up and they made eye contact for the very first time. Now that Arthur could see his face clearly, it was obvious that he’d been incorrect in his assessment. The person standing before him was clearly not a youth. While he was tall and whipcord thin, he had a broadness of shoulder and shadow of stubble that belied his true age.

But more than that, the man was uncommonly attractive, beautiful in an unearthly sort of way: soft, wavy ebony hair, alabaster skin, cerulean eyes that rivalled the sky its colour, a strong, straight nose, strikingly sharp cheekbones, a full, lush mouth, and fey, almost elfin ears. He was a jumble of discordant features that, when composed in _just_ this way, created a masterpiece.

After a long moment, the man startled, as if he’d suddenly realized he’d been staring open mouthed at Arthur. A hint of pink flared on his cheeks as he turned his eyes back to the floor. “Oh, um…I do not believe that I am allowed to fraternize.”

“You have nothing to fear from me, I promise,” Arthur vowed. “But after your unfortunate run-in with Lord Wakefield, I imagined that you might be in need of a stiff drink. For medicinal purposes.”

Straight white teeth caught at his plump lower lip with indecision. Wistfully, he looked at Arthur and then over his shoulder toward the bar.

“If Lord Ashton questions you, inform him that I insisted on the company,” Arthur explained. “He would not wish to displease me; I am one of Albion Club’s largest benefactors.”

Finally convinced, the young man pulled out the chair and sat down, aiming a grateful smile at Arthur. “My thanks to you, Lord Shrewsbury. This is quite kind.”

Arthur waved his hand through the air as if it could dissipate the use of his extraneous title. “None of that. You may call me Pendragon, or simply Arthur, if you prefer,” he said as he thrust his hand toward his tablemate. “I hope you don’t find it poor in manners to ask for your name directly but, considering the circumstances, I did not think it prudent to ask Lord Wakefield for an introduction.”

The man barely suppressed a shiver of revulsion. “No,” he said vehemently, “Certainly not. Merlin Emrys,” he responded, slipping his fingers into Arthur’s for a handshake. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sir.”

A tingle of awareness shot up Arthur’s arm the moment their palms touched. “Likewise,” Arthur murmured, his fingers curling around Merlin’s in a subconscious attempt at feeling them against his skin for just that much longer.

Their eyes met and held over their clasped hands. After a long moment, Arthur caught himself staring and lowered his eyes to the bulbous glass cradled in Merlin’s other long-fingered hand. He nudged his chin toward it and said, “Go on, have a sip. I dare say it would do you well.”

Merlin extracted his hand from Arthur’s with a soft smile and lifted the snifter to his lips. Arthur was mesmerized by the contour of Merlin’s mouth as it pressed against the glass and a mouthful of brandy flowed between the plush raspberry-coloured lips. Suddenly breathless, Arthur’s eyes lowered to watch the movement of Merlin’s Adam’s apple as he swallowed.

“Ahh,” Merlin sighed, sinking back against the chair a little. “Heavenly.”

_My thoughts exactly,_ Arthur mused, his eyes lingering on the long, pale expanse of Merlin’s neck.

Merlin savoured another sip of alcohol and then set the snifter back on the table. Leaning forward, he raised his eyes to Arthur’s, a somber expression overtaking his features. “I must thank you again, Pendragon, for your assistance. I am not yet accustomed to the more _forward_ nature of some of Albion’s patrons.”

Arthur’s eyebrows drew together with alarm. “Have such attacks have been perpetrated against you before, Emrys?”

Merlin shook his head in the negative. “Not in the manner of Lord Wakefield, but there have been many pointed remarks.”

Arthur knew that Lord Ashton normally employed help that leaned toward the same proclivities as the patrons, but due to the secretive nature of their ‘interests’, it was not always possible. Perhaps Emrys was one of those? “Is it discomforting, then, the attention you receive?”

Merlin’s face turned pensive as he raised his glass for another fortifying mouthful. Watching the controlled sloshing of the brandy as he twirled the stem of the glass between his fingers, he sighed. “It is not the attentions themselves that discomfort me, but rather the more brazen manner in which they are conducted,” Merlin admitted softly.

“Ah yes,” Arthur nodded, “that would take some getting used to.” Arthur wondered whether Merlin was one of those employees that also worked “in the back”, but was too much of a gentleman to ask. But he needn’t have worried, for Merlin went on to answer the unspoken query of his own accord.

“When I was hired on, it was explained to me that during the course of my normal duties I might encounter such things, but in truth, I believed it an exaggeration. I was only here to serve food and drink, and therefore assumed I would be below anyone’s notice. How very wrong I was!”

And it was no wonder. Merlin was certainly comely enough to catch anyone's eye.

"Have you long been in Lord Ashton's employ?" Arthur inquired, for he felt certain that he would have noticed Merlin before were it so.

"Not very; a little more than a month, " Merlin owned. "Still earning my sea legs a bit, " he continued with a rueful smile.

"Ah, I did not think I had seen you here before."

In the silence that followed, Merlin drank another two swallows of his brandy.

Something about Emrys seemed different from the norm, Arthur mused. He appeared more cultured and well-bred than most of Lord Ashton's other help. Arthur thought back to their handshake, at Merlin's soft, uncalloused hands, and wondered aloud, "So, what misfortune has brought you to Albion, Emrys?"

Merlin appeared startled by the question. "P... Pardon?" he stuttered, his eyes looking anywhere but Arthur's face.

"Your hands are not those of a man accustomed to menial tasks."

Merlin's mouth twisted into a grimace for a moment, but then, as if he'd caught himself revealing more than he should, his features smoothed into a more detached expression. "Until recently, I was at University in Scotland."

"What was your field of study?"

"Stewardship," Merlin replied. "My benefactor always said I had a head quite made for sums. He looked forward to having me succeed his aging steward when my schooling was complete."

"Then why are you not...?" Arthur began, but Merlin spoke over him, answering the question before it could be asked.

"He passed unexpectedly." A shadow passed over Merlin's features. "The heir had no such need for a steward, having brought one from his own estate."

"How long had you remaining in your tutelage?"

"A year, perhaps a bit more."

"If you are as good with figures as you say, then certainly a new benefactor might have been found for you," Arthur reasoned.

A quick flash fire of anger sparked in Merlin's eyes as he grit out, "My mother was also cast out during the change in regime. It is my duty to care for her, and I could not do so from Scotland."

While Arthur was surprised by the outburst of emotion, he did not believe that the ill feelings were directed at him, but rather the mysterious benefactor's heir.

Then, it was as if shutters had closed up over Merlin's face. He lifted the glass to his lips and drained the remaining brandy in one before pushing himself to a stand.

"I thank you for your hospitality, Lord Shrewsbury, but I fear that I must return to my duties. If you would please excuse me."

Merlin sketched a slight bow to Arthur and then took his leave, taking the empty glass with him.

Long after Merlin had gone, Arthur stared after him with a thoughtful expression. He wondered just how much more there was to the story of Merlin Emrys.

_More,_ Arthur thought to himself with a certainty he could not explain. _Something tells me there's a lot more._


	2. An Unbearable Fondness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur experiences a surprising change of heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written as part of the Camelot Drabble challenge #109 ~ Fond.

~°~

Arthur lay abed well into the night, but his mind would not quiet enough for sleep. Instead, his thoughts centered on a certain dark-haired, blue-eyed handsome young man. Merlin Emrys had been well-spoken, well-mannered, and well-dressed for his station. It was evident that he must be quite intelligent if he had been singled out by his benefactor for scholarship to University. His loyalty to his mother in her time of strife was particularly moving; to give up his studies in order to assist her showed a particular brand of honor which Arthur could not help but look upon with approbation. 

Moreover, Merlin intrigued him. He was a mystery, but one that Arthur desperately wanted to fathom out. And, while their conversation had not ended particularly well, Arthur found himself eager to converse with Merlin once more. 

It did not escape Arthur’s notice that Merlin had just about all the qualities that he looked for in a lover. 

Granted, being of the same social class would have made the situation easier to manage, but what Merlin lacked in rank, he certainly made up for in integrity. The only thing left to wonder was whether Merlin would be open to such an arrangement. 

There was only one way to find out. 

~°~

The butler that answered the door at the Albion Club seemed momentarily startled at seeing Arthur on the stoop. “L-Lord Shrewsbury!” he stammered as he admitted Arthur to the club’s antechamber. 

Arthur didn’t blame the man for his reaction. Until today, Arthur had been a Saturday visitor to Albion, and _only_ a Saturday visitor. “Good day to you, Odin,” he murmured, handing the butler his overcoat and top hat. 

“Your usual table, My Lord?” Odin inquired, already recovered from his surprise and exhibiting his customary reserve. 

Arthur clapped a hand to Odin’s shoulder as he stepped into the main room. His eyes scanned the room until they found what he’d been hoping to see. “Not today, my good man. I’ve a mind to sit at the bar for a while.” 

If Odin found that odd, he was too well-trained to comment on it. “Very good, M'Lord. Have a pleasant evening.” 

Arthur seated himself while Merlin had stepped away to serve another patron’s drink. When he spied Arthur sitting at the bar upon his return, Merlin’s eyes widened in momentary surprise. 

“Lord Shrewsbury,” he greeted; his voice pleasant, if a bit wary. “What can I get for you this fine evening?” 

“A glass of port for now, if you please, Emrys.” 

“Of course, My Lord.” 

Under the pretense of perusing most recent edition of  The Gentleman's Magazine, Arthur watched Merlin from the corner of his eye. The man had more than a little confusion etched on his face, as if he simply could not understand why Arthur was paying him any mind. 

A moment later, Merlin approached him again, sliding a crystal glass next to Arthur’s right elbow on the mahogany bar. “Your port, M'Lord.” 

“Thank you,” Arthur replied, raising his head so that their eyes met. As before, Merlin’s cerulean gaze held Arthur rapt, and he found himself holding his breath. This time though, it was Merlin who cleared his throat self-consciously and averted his eyes, mumbling an excuse about needing to clear away dirty dishes as he turned to leave. 

“Emrys,” Arthur called after him softly before rubbing at the underside of his nose self-consciously. 

Merlin paused for a long moment with his back to Arthur and straightened his shoulders as if preparing for battle before he turned around. “Yes? How else may I assist you, My Lord?” he asked, his face a mask of impersonal civility. 

“I…” Arthur hesitated, unaccustomed to the task of seeking forgiveness, but forced himself to press on. “I wished to apologize for my behaviour last evening.” 

Both of Merlin’s eyebrows rose in apparent astonishment. “I beg your pardon, My Lord?” 

“It was unconscionably rude of me to ask such personal questions of you upon such a short acquaintance,” Arthur forged on, determined to finish now that he’d begun. 

Merlin tilted his head quizzically and walked back over to where Arthur was seated. He rested his wide palms against the dark wood of the bar, almost bracketing Arthur between them. “I deserve no such apology, M'Lord,” Merlin said at last, his eyes studying the grain of the wood in the space between his hands. “It is I who owes the debt of courtesy, not you. You received the brunt of an ire that should not have been directed at you, but rather toward the one who has earned it.” 

“Be that as it may, you had been through much already. It is only natural that you would be out of sorts under such circumstances. I regret that I made a trying evening even more so with my impertinent query. It was not intentional, but still badly done of me.” 

A soft smile graced Merlin’s full mouth. “If we closely examine the events of last eve, I believe that the fault cannot be annexed exclusively to one or the other. Mayhap it is best forgotten rather than forgiven?” 

Arthur could not help but smile in return. “If it is your wish, then let it be so…so long as you desist in calling me ‘Lord Shrewsbury’ or ‘My Lord’. I get quite enough of that elsewhere, Emrys; I have no need of it here.” 

Merlin shook his head firmly. “But it is your title, My Lord. You have earned such a courtesy; it is my duty to give it.” 

“I have given you leave to address me otherwise.” 

"Indeed you have, and it is gracious of you to offer me such condescension," Merlin agreed wistfully. “However, my employer has not. Lord Ashton made it quite clear to me just this morn that I must preserve the distinction of rank between myself and the club’s patrons if I wish to continue my employment.” 

Merlin’s voice dropped to almost a whisper and he bowed his head as if ashamed, “And I...I must retain my position here for my mother’s sake.” 

So moved was he by Emrys’ admission, that without thought Arthur placed a hand atop one of Merlin’s and squeezed, trying to offer the young man what little comfort he could. “Then I shall persuade you to it no longer.” 

Merlin’s fingers clasped Arthur’s for just a second before slipping free. “My thanks to you, My Lord, for your kindness and understanding.” 

The words were so heartfelt and sincere that they drew Arthur’s gaze back to Merlin’s downturned face. He could not help but stare at the very becoming blush that stained Merlin’s cheeks and the lower lip that was again caught uncertainly between his teeth. That Merlin would share this moment of vulnerability with him was humbling, and Arthur found himself suddenly awash with a nearly unbearable _fondness_ for which he had no outlet nor any defense against. 

Then, as Arthur’s heart began to hammer in his chest, Merlin stepped back and clasped both hands behind his back in a sign of obvious subservience. “Now, what may I fetch you for your dinner?” 

~°~

The remainder of the evening was spent by Arthur at his usual table, picking at the roast duck he had ordered (and no longer had an appetite for) and nursing his third after-dinner brandy. Arthur would normally partake of only one digestif, but he was honest enough with himself to own that he was indulging rather more than usual simply to draw Merlin near and to give the poor man a bit of respite from the other patrons. 

Arthur was not so foolish as to cause an uproar, even though he longed to stand between Merlin and every man who addressed him beyond what was right and proper. The last thing he desired was to make Merlin feel even more ill at ease. But whenever his back was turned, Arthur glared daggers at any man who dared to importune Merlin by word, look, or deed…and of those there were many. 

While none of the violations were as egregious as Lord Wakefield’s had been, there were many instances of not-so-innocent glancing touches, hooded eyes that roamed Merlin's body freely, and double entendres that were veiled in polite conversation. 

Honestly, Arthur did not understand how Merlin could endure so many indignities in the space of one evening. But then Arthur recalled Merlin’s bald admission as to how badly he needed the work, and the cruel irony of it turned his stomach. Arthur himself had come to the club that evening with a similar intention to so many of his peers: to take Merlin as a lover. Now, the mere thought of Merlin being forced to accept _anyone's_ attentions was abhorrent to him. 

Although it was a rare occurrence, Arthur had partaken of the "delights" of Albion’s back rooms in the past. Yet he had never given more than a passing thought to those partners beyond the pleasure he’d received and the skill with which it was given. But now, for the first time since his election into Albion Club, Arthur wondered just how many others who now worked in the back rooms had started out as Merlin had: duped into innocently serving food and drink while allowing themselves to be pawed at like a piece of horseflesh on auction. 

It was disgusting. 

But perhaps there was a method in the madness. Mayhap this “running of the gauntlet” was Ashton’s way of determining which of his new hires would earn him the most coin in private rendezvous. While the practice seemed crude and vile to Arthur’s way of thinking, he could not deny that it was effective...and Ashton was nothing if not a shrewd businessman. 

And while none of the men who had serviced Arthur at the club appeared to be unhappy with their terms of employment, perhaps it was just that they had accepted the inevitability of their fate and had simply… _given in_ to it. 

Yet, as he watched Merlin extract himself from yet another untoward advance with a harried, pinched expression, Arthur felt his righteous indignation swell. It was a crime against nature to witness the lively light fading from Merlin’s eyes and his bright smile become more and more diminished. Arthur could not bear the thought of the young man’s spirit being slowly crushed under Fate’s heel and found himself vowing not to let the _inevitable_ happen to Merlin Emrys, no matter the cost.


End file.
